


All Lined With Trees

by Aondeug



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Amnesia, Epileptic Harrow, F/F, Gideon does HEMA, Hurt/Comfort, Poetry, mundane AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29782695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aondeug/pseuds/Aondeug
Summary: Harrow has had seizures since she was ten. She has known Gideon even longer than that. What happens, then, when an attack takes not just their date from Harrow but her memory of Gideon at all?
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17





	1. Aura

**Author's Note:**

> The first act of Harrow the Ninth reminded me of what life's like sometimes when you're epileptic. Which led to my feeling a need to write some self indulgent fic where Harrow's epileptic.

Light!  
Flooding in--  
Sudden, quick--  
Harshly  
Stinging the eyes  
As she steps out  
From their home.

At it--  
The white, the light--  
Her nostrils flare  
And her eyes  
Squeeze shut:  
Tight.

Gideon is there,  
Behind her,  
Then to her side  
Snorting, smiling,  
Saying that she looks  
Like a cat  
That fell in the bath.

Which,  
Fine,  
Yes, perhaps she does,  
But that hardly stops the pain  
And so  
As so often,  
She looks up  
With a glare  
In the glare  
Of a full noon day.

They’re going on a walk.  
Something to get out,  
To keep her from locking  
Up into their room  
For a day and then three more,  
Surrounded by books,  
And the occasional realization  
That she is hungry.

She hated it,  
At first.  
She hates it now,  
For a moment,  
As her eyes adjust.

But it gives her time,  
Them time,  
To simply  
Walk and talk and just  
Be,

Even if that just being  
Is another crass joke  
That makes her groan  
While Gideon laughs  
Thinking herself clever.

She loves it, really,  
Because of that,  
Because behind the groan  
She must fight a grin.

They walk slow,  
They walk long  
To nowhere in particular  
Longing only  
To spend the while  
Whiling about.

It is fall now--  
The leaves…  
They’ve turned  
Such wonders of red  
And yellow and orange,  
At which she stops  
To marvel  
In her own quiet way.

And Gideon is there,  
Shock of red,  
On her head,  
Hoisting her up,  
Arms tight ‘round her,  
As the breath leaves  
Her from the shock.

She loves it,  
Really,  
Though she protests,  
Though she pounds,  
Lightly--one fist--  
Against those arms.

And,  
She is set down,  
Let to catch her breath  
And fix her hair  
While she mumbles  
About how she’d been looking  
And now she has lost  
Track of what.

But there is not a hint  
To be found at all  
Of genuine irritation.

So the walk goes on,  
Down the tree lined path,  
As cars rush past  
And they talk on  
About classes and life and more,  
And the light  
Trickles through leaves--  
Light!  
Flickering  
Scattershots of color through shade.

At first,  
It doesn’t bother her.  
At first,  
She assumes she needs  
Something,  
Something with a name  
She can’t quite name,  
And so,  
She stops and Gideon stops  
To ask “What’s up?”  
Which she waves away,  
Saying “It’s nothing, Griddle,”  
Before taking a step  
Forward once more.

Gideon asks again,  
Half a block away,  
Because she always does,  
And Gideon jokes again  
Her concerns brushed away  
That papers can’t run.

That is good.  
That is fine.

They are walking--  
There is light  
Flickering down  
Through tree tops tall.  
There is light  
Dancing along  
Her line of sight.

And she stops  
To rub at her eyes  
Thinking again  
That,  
Perhaps,  
She needs water  
Or a snack  
Or have they walked too long?  
Or, perhaps,  
Gideon is right, too right,  
About the pushups.

Gideon (?),  
She asks, again,  
If things are  
Fine  
And her line  
Is quite fine,  
So  
She snaps  
That she’s fine  
And doesn’t need a minder.  
They are just walking,  
And she steps off  
Leaves falling--  
Gently, stately--  
Leaving a path of red.

The voice,  
It says something,  
In a pitch that rises  
In a tone unknown,  
And the lights  
Have turned to lines  
Painting pictures,  
Fractally spread,  
In the sky,  
And she thinks  
That, perhaps,  
Her meal didn’t agree with her  
And the voice--  
Gideon?--  
It is still there,  
Speaking, saying, saying  
Something  
As the leaves fall  
And

_You fall too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aura - The altered state of perception some feel before seizures. The exact symptoms experienced vary from person to person, but strange audio and visual hallucinations are common. As are confusion, nausea and a sense of foreboding.
> 
> Photosensitivity - One of the triggers for seizures is quick changes in light. Light flickering through leaves can trigger seizure activity similar to how strobe lights can.


	2. Adrift

Light!  
Harsh, bright,  
Stinging the eyes  
As the world,  
It comes into view  
And with it  
A ceaseless pounding  
All through the head.

You groan, you roll,  
Wondering  
Where you are,  
Where you were,  
And your eyes,  
They sting, they ache  
And the light,  
It beats down  
On your soul  
As your heart beat  
Echoes on and off  
In your braincase.

It is too  
Much.  
The world,  
It comes too  
Fast but it comes too  
Slow,  
So you shut your eyes  
Blocking it out  
As best you can.

But your head--  
Your soul, your you--  
Swims,  
Set adrift  
In a sea of sensation  
Lacking direction...  
No up, no down,  
And too much  
All at once  
Bearing down on you  
Without relent.

The light,  
It stings  
But you can’t swim  
In a world  
Without water, so  
You open your eyes  
To see blankets--  
Yours--  
And you hear  
From the other room  
Footsteps--  
Too loud, too clear.

_Fuck._

They near you  
And the door  
Clicks open,  
Swinging forth  
With a sound  
That makes you wince.

The footsteps,  
They near you  
Stepping into the room,  
Stepping toward you  
As you bury your face  
Underneath blankets  
Seeking peace  
From your aching form.

And a voice  
Calls out your name,  
And you crawl out  
To look up up at it--  
Squinting, straining--  
To see the face  
Of a woman  
Who looks back at you,  
Sad smile on her face.

She holds a waste bin,  
Plastic bag inside it,  
And sets it down  
To your bedside saying,  
“It’s been years, you dork,  
I’m not going to laugh.”

And the voice...  
You   
_Struggle_  
To pick it out,  
To place it, to find it  
And to find it,  
To find the context  
To the words  
Spoken to you  
Just now.

So you look  
From the basket   
Up to the face, her face--  
Her hair, _red_ ,  
Her eyes, _gold_ \--  
And you see  
Eyes wide  
With wonder? Fear?  
A gaze that asks  
As you ask  
“Why are you in my home?”

She stalls,  
She stands  
Upright, quiet,  
Thinking, you think,  
As you gaze  
Eyes open wide,  
Your body rigid  
Like a rabbit  
Caught in the throes  
Of death yet coming.

“I live here?”

Those are words you don’t like,  
Because they aren’t words  
That explain the why,  
And the why gets lost  
As your stomach does too  
As you grab for the basket.

Nothing comes out.  
You wretch, you cough,  
You struggle, you strive.  
But nothing comes out,  
Not one bit,  
And you loathe it,  
Hate that  
Thinking that   
If you could just   
Vomit  
Then one  
Of your problems   
Would vanish  
In an instant.

One,  
Because the other  
Runs a hand  
Through her hair  
And says to you  
As you look up  
From your basket,  
Head still screaming,  
Eyes still burning:  
“I’m your girlfriend.”

Girlfriend, girlfriend…  
It’s a word you know,  
A word that feels  
Right,  
In a sense,  
Because you know  
That you have one,  
A girlfriend,  
And you’ve been dating  
Just one,  
A year now,  
Though you’ve known   
_Her_  
For so many more.

But that word  
That you know,  
That lines up  
Does not line up  
With her face, her voice  
That swears now  
Mumbling something  
About Sex Pal   
And what he said.  
And _that_ name, _that_ joke;  
You know those.

You know also   
That your stomach rebels  
Against all that you are,  
And so you take  
Back to the bucket  
And all for naught,  
Because of course fucking not.

She reaches out,  
Hand brushing  
Against your shoulder,  
Light, firm.  
To which  
You lash out  
Voice rough, biting,  
Stating  
Quite plain  
That it’s fine,  
You’re fine  
You need no minder.

The hand  
Leaves you  
And the voice says,  
“Got it,  
Look, Harrow,  
I’ll be in the next room  
While you sleep it off.”

Those words are sweet,  
Awkwardly said,  
By one caught off guard,  
Caught without  
What she should recall  
As you look to watch  
Her set down a pair  
Of your underwear  
On the nightstand.

A kind gesture.  
Unneeded,  
You think.  
But appreciated.

And you stare  
At her, then the stand,  
Looking, searching  
For signs of her,  
Of you,  
The two of you  
And your head  
Hurts   
To think of it.

Your face,  
Must’ve scrunched up  
In pain because  
She says...  
 _Something_  
About getting tylenol  
Or advil  
Or something.  
One of the two,  
She can never remember which.

Neither can you,  
And you’ve lived with this  
Most of your life.

You hear her walk out  
To the bathroom  
Where the medicine cabinet lays  
And you note  
That she walks well,  
Comfortably,  
With a knowing gait.

This sets you at ease.

She lives here.  
She is your girlfriend.  
She lives here.  
She knows you piss yourself.

_Now if only you knew her..._

The nightstand scanned  
Reveals nothing save  
An old lamp,  
Some notes in your hand,  
Your underwear…  
Useless things  
For the task at hand.

And the task,  
It ends,  
It lays abandoned  
As you sit upright  
Much too fast  
For your aching head  
To vomit, to try,  
Dry heaving  
Into the basket  
Miserable,  
Small,  
Weak. 

She is tall.  
You note that  
When she steps back in  
Carrying not just advil  
But some tums as well.  
She knows them well:  
The symptoms  
Of your postictal hell.

Unfortunate for you  
That tums do fuck all  
And advil just as little,  
But you grunt out  
A quiet thank you  
Given sincere  
As you hide your face  
In the basket,  
Gazing down  
At paper towels  
Lining the bottom,  
Messily spread  
In a way   
That feels familiar.

You grit your teeth.  
She asks if you’re hungry.  
“No,” you say   
Wondering, silently,  
What happened to  
“Harrow, I’ll leave.”

You don’t like the sound  
Of “Harrow, I’ll leave” though  
When it comes time to it  
And you look up  
To see her leaving.  
You say nothing,  
Feeling obstinate,  
Proud, hateful.  
At yourself, mostly.  
For feeling too weak  
To stand, to think,  
To remember, to recall...  
Even to puke.

She leaves the room  
Leaving you  
Alone   
In a room  
Bearing signs  
Of you  
And her,  
Your girlfriend,  
Whose face you don’t recall.

Laying back down  
You note the posters--  
Yours--  
Bands spread out  
Spelling out names  
Just as you remember.

Pulling the covers up,  
You note the sword  
Against the wall,  
Sheathed  
Just right  
And you know  
That you’ve seen that.

You know it’s hers.  
You know you know that.  
But the sword...  
The face…  
They just don’t meet.

It’s there though,  
Her sword.  
And she’s tall,  
But she’s not here.

She’s in the other room  
And you are balled up,  
Fingers curling tight  
Against the sheets  
As the world  
Closes around you  
Pulling you down  
Into a pit too deep  
For you to crawl from,  
So you wish  
Fitfully,   
Pitifully  
For sleep, just sleep.

Sleep does not come.  
It can’t come.  
Not with your head  
That beats and beats.  
Not with your stomach  
That swims and swims.  
Sleep does not come  
But you don’t cry out  
For her, the one  
With a name you don’t know,  
Because you hate to  
Call for anyone.

She left you advil,  
She left you tums,  
She left you a glass of water  
Lukewarm and  
Tasting of nothing  
But the tap.

The medicine,  
It won’t help.  
You know that.  
The water,  
It’ll help  
But too slow.

There is a sword  
Against the wall  
That is plastered in posters  
That you look at  
As you set the glass down.  
One poster,  
That one you know  
Is not your own  
But hers alone.  
It’s her favorite,   
_They’re_ her favorite.  
You know that,  
But her name  
Eludes you  
And you swear  
As you go down  
To the blankets  
Feeling like shit  
And wishing,  
Quietly,  
That she hadn’t left.

Sleep--  
You try it again,  
Shutting your eyes,  
Clinging to blankets  
And it won’t come  
And your sense   
Of balance is thrown  
Forcing your eyes  
Back open.

Sunlight  
Can’t peak through  
Your blankets,  
They’re much too heavy,  
Too thick,  
But the dark  
Does not let you  
Catch your bearings  
So you poke out  
Your head  
From the blankets  
With a groan  
Seeking the light.

You look to the wall,  
To your dresser next  
And a photo then  
Of you and of her.

She is tall.  
You are small.  
She is grinning.  
You are frowning.  
She has an arm around you.  
You have yours folded tight.

Photos--  
You’ve hated them  
For as long as you know.  
The smiling,  
It’s forced, it’s awkward  
And Pal,  
He pointed it out  
So you frowned  
As hard as you could  
While she beamed  
Bright as could be.

You know that,  
And you know the sword  
Against the wall  
Because she’s shown you  
Just what she learned  
At those classes  
Teaching arts  
With a name so long  
It’s reduced to four letters.  
You didn’t appreciate it,  
Not at first,  
But as the years went by  
You looked to her  
With an awe--  
An amateur’s understanding--  
Of her skill.

You know that,  
And you know that  
Your stomach aches  
Though you can’t vomit.  
You know that   
And you hate that  
Because it’d help, it would,  
If you just could.

But you can’t  
So you lay there  
Too dizzy to stand,  
Too stubborn to cry  
Looking at a sword  
Standing against the wall,  
Halfway hoping  
That you’ll puke  
Right there  
In your bed  
When you’re not ready.

The strain,  
It grows, it stretches...  
Until it seems  
To swallow you  
Leaving you feeling  
The world come to an end,  
Hoping it’ll end  
The pain.

And the pain  
Brings you back  
Under the covers  
Hoping, praying,  
That your head  
Will sit still,  
And it does not  
And you do not  
Cry out for her,  
For help,  
Though you’ve started  
To cry.

Your head,  
It hurts.  
Your eyes,  
They hurt.  
Your stomach  
Hurts too.

And it’s there  
On the tip of your tongue,  
And you curl up  
Thinking on how  
You’re alone  
When you’d rather  
You not be,  
And it’s there  
At the edge of your mind  
At last, right there,  
It’s there, the name,  
The name:

_“Gideon.”_

The first call  
Is small,  
Muffled and weak.

**“Gideon.”**

The second  
Is more sure,  
More sound  
And the sound  
Brings a surety  
To you.

_**“Gideon!”** _

The third  
Is a shout  
As the dam  
Comes crashing down.

And she crashes down,  
Falling down  
Loud enough  
For you to hear,  
And she swears  
Loud enough   
For you to know  
That that voice  
Is one you know.

_That face too…_

She knows that face,  
And she hates that face  
That’s much too concerned  
For something so stupid,  
But she loves that face  
That she looks up to  
With desperation burning.

Her eyes are burning,  
This time from tears  
And from shame  
At those tears,  
And Gideon’s joking  
That she knows she’s hot  
But don’t you think  
This is a bit dramatic  
A reaction, Harrow?

And Gideon is there  
In their bed,  
Her arms wrapped tight  
Around her form  
As she clings tight  
To the feeling  
Bubbling up,  
Light, airy...  
 _Free._

She has a girlfriend,  
Her name is Gideon,  
And she’s right here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Postictal state - The altered consciousness after one wakes up from a seizure. Usually marked by a migraine, extreme nausea and confusion. Weakness in the limbs and amnesia are also common side effects. A rarer symptom is postictal euphoria when the amnesia ends.
> 
> Incontinence - A common occurrence during seizures.
> 
> Four Letters - Historical European Martial Arts is kind of very long, so it typically gets shortened to HEMA. Gideon does this. It lets her have BIG SWORD and all Gideons everywhere deserve a big sword.


End file.
